


Loyalty's Vice

by TrollSweat



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Power Imbalance, Public Humiliation, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26819365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrollSweat/pseuds/TrollSweat
Summary: Nathanos endures because he must. His loyalty to his Queen must never be in question.
Relationships: Nathanos Blightcaller/Sylvanas Windrunner
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Loyalty's Vice

**Author's Note:**

> This fic...literally came out of nowhere, BUT I love to hate Nathanos and just, mmm let me see him taken down a few notches.
> 
> This is not only my first fic in this fandom, but my first fic in...a long time? There will be at least one more chapter after this, but who knows??
> 
> For Cery and Jel because they are horrible enablers :3
> 
> _____

Nathanos endures because he must. His loyalty to his Queen must never be in question; he is her most trusted ally, her protector, and the closest thing she has to a friend. He has been by her side through it all, a faithful shadow at her beck and call, and he would have it no other way. Nathanos gave his fealty the day Sylvanas handed him his officer’s badge, and swore his soul to her the day she raised him from the grave. And now, in undeath, he continues his perpetual duty to serve and protect.

Somewhere deep, deep down, he knows she doesn’t need him. She is intelligent and strong-willed, more than capable and holds more power than anyone he knows. He himself is but a foolish old man, confusing attention for affection, but he suppresses those fleeting thoughts swiftly, and continues to believe that what he feels goes by a four letter name.

He has been here for hours now, though he does not know exactly how many. Outside, he can hear the sounds of Orgrimmar’s residents beginning to stir, muffled chatter and laughter as the market stalls are set up for the day. He starts at a voice, just beyond the Hold’s entrance, a barked order to the guards changing shifts that no-one must be allowed to enter until the Warchief arrives.

He relaxes a little at the words, relieved that she had made sure he would be left in peace until her return. The discomfort is worth it to please her, he thinks, as he flexes his too thick fingers, sees the movement peripherally where his hands are bound, up near to his face. The hands with calluses in all the wrong places, formed by the wielding of swords and maces, and not from the notching and pulling of arrows, nor even the humble machinations of a farmer. He thinks he might one day believe that this body belongs to him, but for now he simply revels in the sensation of the iron shackles around his wrists biting into his flesh, glad to feel anything at all.

The hard stone of the raised dais is cold and unrelenting on his bare knees, a contrast to the heat emanating from the lit brazier at his back, a little too close and too hot to be considered pleasant. His ankles are bound with the same heavy shackles as his wrists, and the thick bar that connects them all prevents him from shifting to much, lest he topple, so he does his best to ignore that the heat makes the skin of his back feel taught across his shoulder blades, like hide on a tanning rack

\-----

“The Vice,” she had called it as they entered Grommash Hold in the early hours of the morning, before the sun had risen in the sky, “beautiful, isn’t it?” And it was. The polished metal shone in the gleam from the torches, and gave the iron a wicked red glow, like it were aflame.

“I designed it myself,” she had continued as she approached the device, and ran her slender fingers along the metal with a touch like a lover’s caress. It truly was a contraption of her own mind, he had thought, forged from dark iron, and carved with intricate patterns that swirled and twisted like mist. She had turned to him, her hand still resting on the metal. “This will be my ultimate test of loyalty,” she had said, “That I may know who I can rely on not to desert me.” The glow of her eyes had seemed to brighten just a little, a smile playing on her lips as she spoke.

“You, my dear champion, will have the honour of testing it.”

He had met her gaze with a steady coolness, though now his eyes had flicked to the contraption beside her, warily eyeing each bolt, taking in the position of each weld and lock. Nathanos had been trained to assess restraints, lest he be captured and bound, and taught to escape most of them. She had taught him herself. This...thing she had created, he knew would incapacitate those of lesser experience than himself, and as he inspected further, he knew she had designed it so that even he may not escape its hold. The positioning of the bars would force him to his knees, with arms spread wide, leaving his torso open and exposed.

His shoulders had tensed as a peculiar sensation bloomed in his chest. Before his eyes, vague memories flashed; the feeling of limbs stretched taught, as if he were chained spread-eagled to a table; a ritual performed around him in a language he did not understand; a sharp pain in his chest as a knife pierced his heart. The sensation had passed as soon as it had come, but he could not quite shake the feeling of uneasiness.

Sylvanas, of course, had noticed his change in demeanour, and approached him slowly, like one might approach a wild animal. “You will do this for me, will you not?” she had whispered, her voice low and honey-sweet, too close to him, and yet not close enough. He could see every detail of her face, the faint smattering of freckles across her pale skin, her eyes wide and shimmering with crimson light. It was a rare occurrence that they were alone these days, rarer still that she behaved this way, like she were still alive and whole, visiting Marris Stead on summer evenings.

“Will you not?” she had repeated, a small pout forming on her lips, akin to a child having been denied a Noblegarden pastry. She had reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. The contact, even with the supple leather encasing her fingers, had felt like an electric shock, and it had taken all of his willpower not to flinch away. As he had looked into her eyes, red as blood and intense as ever, he knew that he could not, and would not, deny her this request.

He had stepped back, just enough that he might address her properly, resisting the urge to further their distance more than a few feet. “Of course, my Lady,” he had uttered, his voice thick with sincerity as he dropped into a low bow. “Excellent,” she had said, letting her hand slip from his arm. He had stayed bowed as her footsteps retreated, glancing up only when he had heard the sharp clang of iron against stone, as the shackles were unlocked and dropped unceremoniously to the floor.

“Then strip.”


End file.
